Ferrily She Rolled Along

As normal as you can be with hordes of visitors clogging your streets. Dubrovnik appears on many European "hot" lists, and on the fall weekend I visited, had the crowds to prove it. That's because four cruise ships had just docked, Curic explained, swelling the city's normal population of 55,000 by an additional 10,000. "It's good for the economy," she said with a shrug.

At that point, all 10,000 of them seemed to be gathered in Luza Square, sipping cappuccinos and eyeing each other in sidewalk cafes. The people-watching, to be sure, was sublime: a black-robed monk with rope belt and sandals, striding along with plastic shopping bags; kids careening around on tricycles; old ladies in black dresses and short black socks, carrying their shopping home in straw baskets; tan teenage girls in various degrees of undress. The low midriff thing is alive and well in Eastern Europe.

The city is packed with Gothic, Renaissance and baroque churches, monasteries and museums, but I was most moved by a simpler building: the 15th-century Jewish Synagogue, the oldest Sephardic and the second-oldest synagogue in Europe (after Prague's). You can climb the narrow stairs and view the baroque sanctuary, with its high-backed benches and women's gallery hidden behind wooden grilles. Among the artifacts on display are chilling decrees ordering Jewish Croatians to wear yellow armbands during World War II.

Later, ducking into the 15th-century Dominican Monastery, I browsed works by members of the Dubrovnik Painting School (who knew?) in the attached art museum. The monastery is an architectural delight, with massive pillars surrounding an interior courtyard planted with orange trees. Bonus: Between the pillars, you can see the holes that Napoleon carved to hold his horses' food and water (he invaded Dubrovnik in 1806). And then it was on to more reminders of war in the Memorial Room at Sponga Palace, where a heartbreaking exhibit of photographs pays tribute to the young men who died defending the city.

That night, at a waterfront restaurant and local hangout called Lokanda Peskarija, I snagged a perfect table overlooking the harbor. Lights sparkled on the water and up in the hills as I tucked into a plate of grilled shrimp, feeding the leftovers to the cats making the rounds. It was easy, for a little while, to forget about war.

Island Crush

It seemed impossible that Korcula would be crowded. The tiny island about 3 1/2 hours by ferry from Dubrovnik is known for its laid-back Mediterranean lifestyle, and I was expecting peace and quiet. Turned out to be the same old story . . . a cruise ship had just docked.

There isn't much to do on Korcula, and that, of course, is the great appeal. The main town, also called Korcula, is cunningly laid out, with one long central street (to catch the breeze) and side streets radiating from it like the bones of a fish. Yep, the famous fishbone layout.

It was raining when I arrived, and I negotiated with a young woman for a room off the main square. She was the polar opposite of my Dubrovnik landlady: flaming red hair, green capris, breezy smile. The room, on the fourth floor of her old stone house on the coast road, had another killer view, complete with fishing boats and the odd yacht. I was now officially spoiled for any future B&B in any country, ever.

I gave up on lunch -- every restaurant was packed -- and went for a walk, dodging the dozens of skinny feral cats that slink around town. Korcula, a walled city with steep cobbled streets, feels like Venice -- the Venetians ruled it for four centuries -- and even has its own St. Mark's Square. Each narrow alley is more enticing than the last, with doors opening onto private courtyards with vine-draped, wrought-iron stairways.

By now it was sunny again, and I walked down to the pebbly beach to dip my toes in the Adriatic. The streets were packed with guidebook-toting photographers who tended to stop abruptly in their tracks, causing mini-traffic jams while they zoomed in on the carved moldings and ornate grillwork.

And then, suddenly, the locals took over. Out of a side street came an impromptu wedding procession -- a stylish bride and groom led by a Croatian flag-bearer and an accordionist, with several dozen cheering friends and family members falling in behind them. Impulsively, I followed them down the hill and halfway around the island, snapping pictures and high-fiving the relatives until it occurred to me that I was probably really messing up their wedding video.

That night, after cocktails under the stars at the weirdest bar I've ever been to (a 14th-century Venetian tower with a long, skinny ladder that you have to climb to reach the rooftop tables), I settled in at one of the outdoor restaurants overlooking the bay. Ah, which fresh fish would it be tonight? A black cat prowling the sea wall watched the negotiations as the waiter coached me on the menu: "St. Pietro" was eel, orado was sea bream. And I was also ordering the blitva , he informed me. "That's our special kind of spinach, but it's 200 times better. You will love." I did.